Poems by Alicja Maria Kuberska
In the daily newspaper
Today in the newspaper there was a long article
About a cruelly murdered woman.
The note, at the bottom of the page, mentioned
About the destroyed Kurdish city.
Death has a different number of verses.
It was not profitable to lower the price of milk.
It was better to pour the white sea into fallow land.
Worth enough to buy a few tanks and planes.
Defense industry is driving economy.
The word “suffering” does not exist in the accountancy.
In Palestine, the bombs destroyed the school
On the photo, a group of children like a flock of birds,
sat outside on the wooden benches
The door to education was smashed.
Ruined childhood has sad eyes
They wrote whom to love and whom to hate.
You do not have to think and ask ”why”.
Everything is decided and very simple.
When the indifference grins in a smile
The war’s turmoil lurks behind our door.
Poem dedicated to Charles Baudelaire
Balcony, August 1867
The friends left and the Parisian salons are deserted.
The August sun warmed the cobbled streets
and unbearable heat took in its arms the whole city.
Thick curtains do not protect against intrusive swelter.
Evenings bring cool breeze and some rest.
The sunset extinguish the scorcher by the last golden drop.
The fainted flowers gain power like evil, straighten the leaves,
and release the intense fragrance closed in the goblets.
He, trapped in his own body has no rights
– he will not give a last speech and not write a few words.
He must live in the hell of memories, in his artificial paradise,
which is limited to the size of his apartment.
As the waves come and go nurses,
bring the sterility of boring days in the white sails of smocks.
The storm crushed the ship and another trip is ended.
It is possible to get to the island on a raft of a wheelchair seat
The balcony lets in the feel of the traffic and buzz of the city street.
The night thickens and falls like a dark blind.
Silence reveals slowly the charm of darkness.
Faithful muse returned. She stands next to him and whispers:
“I know the art and happy moments will raise again ”
After the frost
I wander alone in the autumn park
And the paths lead me increasingly
The trees have turned their rich palette of colours
into a mossy nudity of the twisted branches.
The air is empty without birds’ chirping
And the joyful chatter of children at play.
The traces of the swan’s feathers disappeared from the pond
And kisses of lovers hide deeply in my memory
Winds whistles on lifeless grasses
And break the dry branches with a wailing groan
Moisture spreads a glassy shroud onto the ground
And hibernation – a mirror image of death enters
I notice the melancholic charm of passing away
In the eternal cycle of the seasons
I learn from the fallen leaves, twisted like ancient scrolls,
And crumbling in the gray
Footsteps sound loudly in the silence
Of frozen gravel, cracking on the path
The loud croaking of the flying crow’s flock
Points my thoughts in the direction of next spring.
In the Sewer
The first star blinked in the winter sky.
An open cast-iron sewer hatch invited into the warm interior.
The choir of black crows perched on the naked tree branches
loudly croaked out the first carol of the evening.
Burning candle stubs and the light of a torch brightened the darkness.
A small crucifix hangs on the wall, with a broken figurine of Christ,
found among the refuse in a dump.
A crippled carving did not fit in an elegant interior.
Next to the cans bought for beggar’s alms,
on a make-shift table made of crates,
like a wafer, lies a dry slice of white bread.
God’s mercy, like the Star of Betlehem, shines in December.
Each year, at the joyous time of Christmas,
memories of the family house return.
Baby Jesus, crying and shivering in the cold manger,
extends his small hand to bless all paupers.